Forgiveness
by Bryher
Summary: Series of 7, featuring all the Knights from the 2004 film.
1. Chapter 1

**Title;** Attende Domini.

**Rating;** M (Gore, violence.)

**Summary;** Part One of the Forgiveness series. Galahad turns to Christianity in desperation.

**Review; **Please.

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"Attende domini et Miserere, quia peccavimus tibi, attende, attende," Galahad whispered desperately as he tried to pile the innards of the Roman back into the gaping stomach wound. Steam from the cooling corpse rose into the air, tainting the cool, clear night with the stench of spilt bile and vomit.

The expression on the face of the slain man was one of intense pain, only the red, smeared mark across his mouth a testament to the fact he had not slipped onto the pitchfork that had ended his life.

The red mark was a handprint.

_

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Smothering the man as he writhed in agony, hand clamping down the cries which were lost against the bloodied limb, Galahad cried. He had committed a cardinal sin; he had killed a Roman. Surely their god would condemn him to the Woads, sentenced to death for the murder of one of his followers._

* * *

With a soft moan of terror, the youngest knight, barely twelve years old, slumped back against the stable wall, staring at the red, bloody mess at his feet. Bruises marked his face and the harsh imprint of a meaty hand stained the thigh made visible by the tear in his soft breeches; testament to the atrocity the Roman had tried to commit. "Domini, attende…" He whimpered, gripping his hair, unmindful of the blood he was smearing onto his face and brown curls.

"Galahad?"

A knight, one of the ones from Concavata, strode down the alleyway.

Tristan.

The knights under the command of Arthur Castus had come to Vindolanda to look for more knights, as their numbers had recently fallen in a battle with Woads.

Galahad gave a small cry and shot up, dashing down the alley way; swiftly, an arm was around his waist and a hand over his mouth as he was dragged back up the alleyway by the dangerous scout.

"Stop, lad! Stop moving. If you go out there…" Tristan paused, not needing to say more.

"Are you hurt?"

Galahad, relived to find a friend, burst into tears. "He tried… tried to…"

Tristan swore quietly, moving the small, skinny lad so he could examine the rips and bruises caused by the mangled mess behind them.

Eyes swimming with misery, Galahad looked up at the scout, lip trembling in fright. "They're going to kill me. I'm going to die."

Tristan shook his head, pulling off his cloak and wrapping it around the young boy's shoulders. "Arthur won't allow it. You're coming with us."

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Half an hour later, Galahad sat, shivering, hair dripping from a hot bath, looking at Arthur Castus.

Shyly, Galahad whispered, "What are they doing with…?"

"Dagonet and Tor are seeing to it. As far as we can tell, he was only a foot soldier. He won't be missed." Murmured the Commander, back to the lad, facing the fire. He sounded weary.

"I'm sorry," Galahad said meekly. "He just grabbed me and… and…" his throat closed as he looked down, ashamed. Arthur, turning, strode to the boy and knelt before him, looking up into the frightened blue gaze. "It wasn't your fault, Galahad. You and the other boys… I'm going to have to take you away from here, back to Concavata, where we can look after you."

At this, the boy brightened a little.

"So Tristan was right? We're coming back with you?"

"Yes," Arthur nodded, rising, patting the small eleven year old's shoulder. "You're coming home with us."

* * *

That night, Galahad looked up at the small patch of sky visible through the open window hatch and smiled softly. This Christianity thing wasn't all bad.

However, a thought caused him to clutch the blanket tighter around himself.

He wasn't taking any chances with Romans. His pact with Rome was already done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**; Adiuva Me.

**Summary**; Arthur begs for help.

**Rating;** T

**Review**; Please.

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"Domine, adiuva me, Domine..." Arthur whispered, turning in his sleep. Bors, who sat only a few feet away on sentry watch, looked over with a frown. 

Although he was still learning the intricacies of Latin, he'd heard the muttered words enough to know what they meant.

Arthur was begging for help.

Bors never asked why.

Curiously, the skin-headed Sarmatian leant over towards his uneasy Commander and looked at the worried frown that. even in sleep, did not dissipate.

"What happened?" Bors murmured, a concerned look flashing through his eyes.

Sometimes he felt as though he had to look after Arthur. When he had first come to the wall, the eleven year old Half Roman had looked up at the fourteen year old Bors and said, "Hello, Bors. I am your Commander. Or will be, in a bit."

Ever since, Bors had looked out for Arthur, whether or not the Roman realised it.

With a sad sigh, Arthur rolled over, face weary, but still.

"I know you're awake, Arthur." Bors murmured, casting a casual glance at Gawain as he snorted and rolled over, bringing up a hand to place it, palm under his chin, stroking his forehead and nose with long fingers- it was something that the nineteen year old had done since arrival, and was the source of much amusement.

Arthur sat up, letting the heavy horse blanket slip down his armour.

Tired of silence, Bors asked, "Why are you asking for help from something that never answers?"

Arthur jolted.

"What?"

"You heard," Bors said, not unkindly. "You talk in your sleep Arthur. Surely you knew that?"

Arthur had gone very pale, green eyes bright even as his complexion waned of any life.

Bors gave his Commander a searching look.

"Wha…" Arthur cleared his throat. "What do I say?"

Narrowing his eyes slightly, Bors relayed the whispered sentence. Arthur closed his eyes.

"She burnt to death because of me."

Bors jolted, turning to look at Arthur properly. "Who?"

Arthur buried his hands in his hair, resting his elbows on his knees as he stared morosely at the fire, misery and resignation in his eyes. "My mother. She died when I was young."

Bors shifted uncomfortably, not used to seeing his side of his Commander. In all the five years they had been together, none of the knights had seen this side of Arthur.

Gaze shuttered, Arthur began to speak, tone hollow and emotionless. "I was seven when the Woads attacked our village. Merlin led the attack, killing and murdering anyone who stood in the way. There wasn't even anything there of importance for him. He just…" Voice trembling with suppressed rage, Arthur paused, looking straight at Bors, tears gathering in his bright eyes, "He just let it happen. Let his Woads run riot, killing at will. My mother was in the house, screaming. Screaming for me." Drawing a shuddering breath, Arthur ground out, "I ran, but it was…she was trapped by a burning cart. I listened to her screaming as she burned." Arthur lapsed into silence for a moment, ducking his head down as a red tinge swept his face. Bors realised he was crying, and his heart plummeted as a strange burning feeling lodged in his throat. He sat in silence, waiting for the young Roman to talk.

"God didn't help me at first. I thought that he had abandoned us when the first Woads came and killed the blacksmith, then the ferris, then the baker… so I ran to the burial mound of my father and took his sword." His large, calloused hand snuck down and gripped the hilt of Excalibur tightly, knuckles whitening under the strain of his hold.

Bors remained silent.

"One day, Bors, I'll find Merlin, and I'll won't kill him. I will tell him of that night, and let his conscience rot. That is worse than death." Standing, Arthur said in a strong tone, "I'm going to scout about for a while. Let Tristan sleep in a bit in the morning."

Bors didn't argue, but as soon as his Commander had gone, a single, hot tear ran down his scarred face.

"Domine, adiuva me," he whispered as he dashed the offending liquid away, "God, help me."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Title**; Forgive Me._

_**Summary**;Tristan hasn't always been so cold. His life called for isolation and silence. But he begged for forgiveness._

_**Rating;** T_

_**Review**; Please._

**The still, cold air** settled like a blanket over the plains, lulling silence following in it's wake. Tristan's tribe huddled down in huts, around fires and in furs, waiting for the true dark of night.

The young man in question lay sprawled gracefully in a tree atop the hill, slowly carving slices from a sweet apple with a sharp knife. It was his birthday; eighteen years on this earth. Tristan mused quietly over his day, mind mulling through the gifts and presents he had received. A new bow lay at the foot of the tree, the trunk of which was riddled with arrows. It may have been a celebration to his parents and friends, but to him, a darker meaning to this day lurked in the back of his mind; conscription.

Rumours had come through with the traders; mutterings of a Roman horse train conscripting Roman boys and young men. His father had been a knight, and so too it fell to Tristan.

The issue; he didn't want it.

"Tristan?"

He felt surprise, but schooled his features into a solid mask. Peering down to the ground, he saw the slender, shadowed outline of a young woman in a long cloak. His cloak.

"Faline," he breathed, twisting and dropping to the ground. "What are you doing up here?"

"Coming to see you," she replied, smiling shyly. "You seemed lonely." Tristan snaked an arm around her back and pulled her to him sharply, dropping his head onto her shoulder, breathing in her smell. "What would I do without you?" He asked in a low voice, turning his face into her neck to kiss the soft skin there. Faline shuddered slightly in his arms, winding her hands into his hair. "You'd have a lot more unmended clothes, husband." She chuckled, squeaking in laughter as Tristan tickled her sides gently, long fingers gripping her with a strong hold.

"I'd also miss out on your cooking." He pointed out, tilting her chin up with his fingers to settle his mouth over hers for a long, slow kiss. Faline sighed, her warm breath streaming out in a cloud against his lips.

"You'll be leaving soon," she said sadly, pulling away. Tristan frowned, eyes burning with regret as he watched her lean against the tree, hugging herself tightly.

"I could come with you."

"You know you can't."

"I could disguise myself…"

"Faline, we've been through this."

"Tristan, I love you."

The young man closed his eyes against the lurching of his heart. "And I love you." He returned slowly, "But you can't come with me. It's too dangerous."

"And what of it? Tristan, I would do anything for you!" Faline cried, spinning around with tears in her eyes. "I would do _anything_. But you won't let me stay with you."

"Faline," Tristan said, stepping toward her- flinching as she stepped back, shaking her head- "Come here."

When she showed signs of running, he leapt forward, tackling her to the ground within the safe cradle of his arms, pinning her to the hard, cold earth. Faline didn't make a sound, her full mouth pressed into a thin line as tears threatened to spill. "I love you," Tristan growled desperately, kissing her hard on the mouth. "With all my heart." Faline opened her lips to him, letting the Leader's Son's hands roam freely over her torso as he ravaged her mouth. "But I won't let you die. Forgive me."

Faline murmured into his hair that she would, but her heart broke in that instant.

It was the first and last time Tristan would ever be with her. His new life called for isolation and silence. But he begged for forgiveness.

"Forgive me, Faline."

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